


The Road

by tirsynni



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Ficlet, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tirsynni/pseuds/tirsynni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins had traversed many roads following his return to the Shire, but there was one journey he could not bring himself to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road

Bilbo Baggins sketched the route with his fingers and pen. He sketched the route they went and then sketched the route they could have gone if they had more time and safety. He put a mark beside places he could stop on the way, perhaps to enjoy a spot of sightseeing.

Instead, Bilbo Baggins went everywhere else. He journeyed to Rivendell and he once even travelled to Lothlorien in Gandalf’s company. He visited the Blue Mountains and braved the borders of the Old Forest. He walked to Ered Luin and the Sea.

Again and again Bilbo Baggins traced this route and that route, but he never again journeyed to Erebor.

When Frodo was placed in his care, he at first rationalized that such a long journey would be difficult with a hobbit in his care. Then he threw out that line of thought not only as a discourtesy but clearly disrespectful to himself and Frodo and…everyone, really. He thought about bringing Frodo with him, to show him the plains of Rohan and the glorious heights of the Misty Mountains. Alas, for all that Frodo’s mind soared, his feet were firmly embedded in the Shire’s soil. Bilbo focused on that instead, teaching Frodo letters and languages and how to read maps.

Bilbo never taught Frodo the language of the Dwarves.

“It is not my place, Old Friend,” he explained to Gandalf over wine as Frodo slept peacefully down the hall.

Gandalf hummed and sipped his wine. His beard always remained dry, which never failed to confuse Bilbo. How could he keep his beard clean and yet always hit his head off the lights? Being a Wizard was a finicky business, Bilbo gathered.

“I think you give neither yourself nor the Dwarves of Erebor enough credit,” Gandalf returned. His glass was nearly empty, so Bilbo quickly refilled it. He constantly forgot to buy Man-sized dishes for his rare Big guests. How awfully rude! “You count Frodo as your heir, and all the Dwarves of Erebor will view him as such. Dwarf memories are long; they have not forgotten your deeds and their debt to you.”

His voice was chiding and Bilbo tilted his head, accepting the due admonishment. He laughed, keeping it quiet, with none of the tumultuous emotions frothing in his heart breaking through. “Even in death, with all these years between us, that dratted Dwarf still confounds me.”

Only when Gandalf’s long fingers brushed his cheek did Bilbo realize he had wept. Perhaps he wasn’t as good at controlling himself as he hoped.

“I believe,” Gandalf murmured, “that the stubbornness of a Hobbit’s heart can easily match that of a Dwarf’s. Yours was a far more fitting match than anyone expected.”

That was Bilbo’s cue to pour himself more wine. Fifty years a bachelor with no one in the Shire or Hobbiton catching his interest, only to be swept away by one infuriating and dear Dwarf. Forty years hence and still not a moment matched a mere breath in Thorin Oakenshield’s company. Bilbo raised a silent toast and thought that Thorin would approve.

“Will Frodo ever know?” Gandalf asked.

Bilbo hummed and stared at the fire. Sting rested on the mantle above it, clear to all eyes. His hobbit guests eyed it with horror and fascination, but Dwarves and Men were respectful in the times they entered his modest hobbit hole. Not many blades had triumphantly fought against the spiders of Mirkwood, after all.

Sting might again, someday, but not by his hands. “He knows of Thorin, King Under the Mountain,” Bilbo answered presently.

Gandalf hummed and reached for his pipe and weed, sounding as if he had heard far more than Bilbo had meant to disclose. Dratted wizards.

Bilbo sighed and watched the fire crackle. “I miss him, Gandalf,” he murmured, “so much.”

When Gandalf tenderly touched his hand, Bilbo surrendered and quietly wept. Down the hall, Frodo slept on.

xoxoxox

When Frodo met Bilbo again in Rivendell, Bilbo gave Frodo the last of his things: Sting and the mithril coat Thorin had given him. “To protect my heart,” Thorin had explained, one of the last smiles Bilbo had seen lighting his face.

Bilbo asked if Frodo and read his book and asked if now Frodo would add his own tale. He didn’t tell him that there was a new epilogue to his tale of Dwalin, Nori, and Bofur accompanying him to Erebor, of the royal welcome he had received, of the kiss he had laid on Thorin’s tomb. Tender and modest gifts from the Shire now blessed three dark graves, and there was no need for Frodo to hear such tales.

Instead, Bilbo sat with Frodo as he traced routes with his own finger from Rivendell to Mordor, from Mordor to the Shire. He rested his hand over Frodo’s and traced from the Shire to Erebor.

“No good to go back,” Bilbo explained, pulling both their hands from the map, “nor sideways. Only thing to do is go forward. On you go!”


End file.
